


Hold

by oooknuk



Series: Held [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Drug Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 22:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10750935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Someone has a hold of Fraser





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters you recognise will belong to Alliance. No infringement of copyright intended. Not for profit. 
> 
> Warnings: language, descriptions of psychological torture 
> 
> Note: My thanks to Linda G for advice regarding police procedure. This is for Possum, who wanted Ben to hurt this time. Evil Possum. The sequel to this story is 'Catch'.

He is a contradiction. He is a solitary person, but makes friends easily. He loves children, but has not married. A creature of the snows and the empty spaces, he is at home here, but refuses to adjust to city ways.

He doesn't fear danger or pain. People are his weakness. He dreads incapacity more than death.

He is intelligent. He is open. He is wily. He is resourceful.

It will be difficult to make him yours.

 

* * *

"Come on, Fraser, shake a leg," I grouse at him. He grins at me - Ben is usually up first, but I'm the one on the early shift so I get to make the coffee and the toast while he has a leisurely shower. Dief's at the vet because he had a small operation yesterday so Ben hasn't had to walk him before he goes to work. But he gives me a kiss before diving into the bedroom, me hoping that one day that towel will slip and he will finally run through our apartment bare naked like in my fantasies.

"Coffee's up, Ben," I call.

"In a minute, Ray. Where did you ... ah, got it." I don't touch the uniform, he knows that, but I, um, sometimes play with the sacred Stetson. Sometimes.

He sits at the counter and I shove his toast at him. "Thank you, Ray. Now you and Don are in court this afternoon, that's correct? So I'll walk home."

"Unless he cops a plea, yeah. We need some fruit and milk, if you're passing that way."

Three years I've been with him, and I can never get over how easy it is. We never fight over chores, never have to argue about spending Saturdays shopping. We just fit everything in around our work. Sure, we fight - over big stuff like the meaning of life, curling versus hockey, shit like that, but over the little things? Never.

"When are you picking the furface up?" I ask.

"This afternoon - since there's a risk he might still be a little nauseous from the anesthetic, I didn't want to risk him at the Consulate. Uh, the Inspector hasn't quite forgiven him for last time."

"Those shoes never made it, huh?"

"No. I did explain that the new worming medicine wasn't known to have vomiting as a side effect but he seemed curiously uninterested in discussing it. But in any event, I don't want to aggravate him."

"Greig's such a hardass, it's a wonder he doesn't need dynamite to take a crap."

"I think that's a little unfair. You know ..."

Ben's still eulogizing his sucky boss as only he can when we get in my car. I shut him up with a kiss, which takes his mind right off Inspector Greig and reminds him of the hot night we had. I love it when his eyes go a little cross-eyed with lust like that.

I drop him at the Consulate, him giving me a hand squeeze as usual before he gets out of the car. "I'll call you if court's canceled, OK?"

"Right you are, Ray."

Welsh has got Eliza to put a stack of unsolveds on our desk and Don and me have to spend all morning going over the damn things. Just what I need before an afternoon in court. The perp is a second offender, and we were hoping he'd plea bargain so he wouldn't be looking at the three strikes and you're out rule down the line, but no such luck. Don gets called at three, and then the fucking judge calls a recess. Don sees me looking at my watch.

"In a hurry to get home, Ray?"

"Sort of. I was hoping to pick Ben up. He's got Dief at the vet."

"Would you like me to give him a lift? I'm all done."

My partner is a good guy, that's for sure. He doesn't even like Dief much because the fuzzball peed on his leg the first time he met him - Don's a cat person really - but he's happy to help anyone.

"Would you? That'd be great."

"Let me call him. I'll drop him off and head on home. That's OK with you?"

"Sure. See you tomorrow. And thanks."

It's just as well Don offered, because I don't get free for another two hours, an hour and half past the end of Ben's shift, and three past when I should've been finished myself. I drive home, glad to be able to take off my tie and jacket. Hate suits. Ben should be home and it's his turn to cook, so I'm looking forward to food, shower and him, not in that order. But there's no one there, even though it's six o'clock. I give him an hour, just in case he's stuck at the market, then I call Don.

"Arnulfson."

"Don, it's me. Did you drop off Ben?"

"Not at your apartment. He said he had some groceries to buy so I let him out up the street from that shop on the corner. Why?"

"He's not here."

"Ray, that was hours ago. Are you sure he hasn't been back and taken Dief for a walk?"

"Positive - and anyway, where's the stuff he bought? You picked up Dief, right?"

"Yeah. I called Fraser, picked him up at three, took him to the vet and got the dog, and then I dropped him at the market. That was, uh, three hours ago."

"Maybe he forgot something at the consulate. I'll check. Thanks anyway, Don."

I write a note for Ben saying where I've gone, and then drive slowly down his normal walking route to the Consulate. No sign, and the building is locked up. I retrace my route back to our apartment. Now I'm worried. It's not totally out of character for Ben to go off on his own, but he'd never just forget it was his turn to cook and not tell me. I check the apartment, the answering machine. Think about calling Inspector Greig and decide to leave that for now. Where might he go? If Dief got sick ... the vet hasn't seen Ben, they say. I try the parks, even the reservoir where he likes to go pretend ice fishing. The thing's not frozen but maybe ... no, nothing. The market says he hasn't been in - they're positive about that, they know him well and he's pretty obvious in that uniform.

I finally get back at ten. Still no sign. I ring the hospitals and the station, asking if there's been reports of him being injured. Nothing. I know Welsh will have a cow if I asked for an APB but I call him anyway. "Kowalski, maybe he just wanted some time to himself?"

"Yeah, boss, but you know Fraser..."

"I sure do, and in the seven years I have known him, the guy has done some pretty kooky stuff. Look, go to sleep. If he doesn't turn up by morning, I'll authorize an APB. OK?"

That has to do. I go to bed, but not to sleep. I got a feeling in my gut this is bad.

 

* * *

Ben doesn't show, and Welsh doesn't waste any more time. We put out a description of Ben and Dief and I phone all the obvious places again. His boss calls me and starts to bawl me out until I say he's missing. Greig sounds concerned, but not too worried, and offers to make enquiries at the Canadian end. I spend all day on the case - Welsh cuts me some slack, he knows what Ben means to me even though we keep it quiet. Don helps too and he's got some good suggestions, none of which pan out. I go over and over the sequence of events with him, but nothing jumps out at me. He's upset, saying he should have taken him all the way home. I point out that Ben is an adult male and a Mountie, and should have been able to get from the grocery store to our apartment without a body guard. If he's been snatched, I can't think who by, because he hasn't been involved in local police work since we got back from Canada three years ago. He got promoted and now he's mostly a desk jockey.

At four, we get a report of a animal matching Dief's description being found and taken to the local SPCA. I drive over and the staff tells me he's been shot, and is not likely to survive. It's Dief all right. They've got him on a drip and all bandaged up. My chest goes tight as fuck when I see him. He's awake and tries to lick my hand but can't.

"Dief, buddy, what the hell happened to you?" I say softly, patting him. Please don't die, I pray.

The vet tells me that it'll take a miracle to save him. I tell him to make a miracle and that whatever the wolf needs, whatever the cost, he's to get it. The vet tells me money isn't the answer, but accepts anyway. They didn't get any bullets out of him, but I get Forensics over to the place where they found him, down by the wharves. Now what the hell was Ben doing with Dief down there? There's nothing I can see but the blood where Dief was lying but Forensics will do a finger tip search. I call Welsh and he says we have to treat this as a kidnapping now. He doesn't need to say that it might be a murder too.

 

* * *

He wakes to total darkness. A weight around his neck - a metal collar, not tight, but heavy and uncomfortable. He is nude. His head hurts him intensely and his eyes and nose sting painfully from the Mace that was sprayed in them before he was injected and became unconscious. He is lying on something soft - a layer of compacted foam. A camping mat, perhaps. He stands cautiously and feels his way down one wall to the end of the chain tethering him, and then down the other. There is a plastic bucket without handle. Empty - he can readily divine its purpose. The walls are smooth and featureless. Painted concrete. He cannot reach any other corner of the room before the chain halts him. He sits back on the mat cross-legged and waits.

 

* * *

Forensics find the two bullets that went through Dief.  9mm, slugs too deformed to get a match from. Blood from the wolf, and no other trace. Ben's been missing over 36 hours and there's been not a word from anyone who snatched him. I haven't slept in all that time, and after I take the head off our civilian aide, Welsh orders me home.

"Boss, I got to find him."

"Kowalski, that was an order , not a suggestion. You go home, you get some sleep and I do not want to see you in here before tomorrow morning, _with_ a better attitude or I'll have your gun or your badge."

I'm about to throw said badge at him, I'm so pissed, but Don puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me away. "I got him, Lieutenant."

"Ray, come on," my partner says to me. "You got everyone working on this, there's nothing you can do. Go see Dief and then go home. You never know - the big guy might walk in while you're there."

He knows there's no hope of that, but I appreciate the kindness. I do as he says. Dief is holding his own but not out of danger. He's unconscious when I get there. No one is making any promises.

I go home, take a shower. Too wired, too worried to sleep. I switch on the TV but don't know what I'm seeing. I don't want to think about Ben being dead but someone did put two bullets into Dief.  If only I'd driven him home that day - if only Don had waited for him. But it's not his fault, I have to keep telling myself. It's the fault of the person who snatched him.

 

* * *

You listen to his breathing. It's still steady. He has placed the waste bucket as far from him as he can manage, and you know the smell offends him.  It offends you but it is serving its purpose. It has only been two days and he has reserves for several more, you know that, especially as he is not prone to wasted effort. He's tried the bolts holding the chain, tried the collar and gave up after a reasonable time. He called out to you,  his captor, but when he got no response, he stopped. A sensible man, cautious when he needs to be.

There are many layers to be removed before you get to his soul. You have spent months preparing for this and now you will take how long you need to.

 

* * *

I wake up on the sofa at four a.m. No chance of getting back to sleep. I make coffee and go to the station. Welsh comes in three hours later and scowls at me. "You said morning, boss. It's morning."

"You're walking a thin line, Kowalski," he growls, but he's not mad really. Just worried, like me.

Don comes in a half hour later and frowns at me. "Ray, you still look like crap. How much sleep did you get?"

"Enough, Don. Get off my back, will ya?"

He holds up his hands. "Whoa, partner. I'm as worried as you are, and I got you to think about too. You want another coffee?"

I hold out my mug and he takes it. Don's in baby-sitter mode. Reminds me of Ben when he's like this. Everything reminds me of Ben of course, and damn, I'm not crying in the fucking precinct. I'm not. I call the vet. Dief's a little better, the only good news I've had in two days. But he's got a long road in front of him.

 

* * *

A week and counting. How can a grown man in a fucking red suit disappear with no trace at all - I mean, no homeless guy hanging around keeping an eye on things, no passerby, no CCTV. It totally sucks.  Welsh has finally put me on leave, for my sake and for the rest of the department. He means it kindly but it's the worst thing he can do in a way. Don promises me to keep looking and to keep me informed but it's not the same. I take to driving around and around, looking, asking. I call in every favor, ask every snitch, trace everything I can think of. We've already looked through every case file Ben ever worked on, right back to Vecchio's time. I've even called Vecchio myself - the guy is as worried as me but he can't think of any angle we haven't already covered.

I'm officially going nuts here. I've called every Canadian I've ever met, or worked with. Thatcher was surprisingly nice once I tracked her down, but no joy. Turnbull was clueless, no help. Buck Frobisher. Eric Nightwing. Quinn. Nothing. They said they would come and search. But I was clutching at straws. I needed a city hunter, not a native tracker.

Finally I call Maggie, something I've been putting off. She's a Mountie and takes the news on the chin. She knows as well as I do what the odds are.

Two weeks. Welsh has been to visit twice and he's talking about me seeing a counselor. I told him, I don't need a shrink, I need my lover back. I know that look he gives me when I say that. We give the same look a couple of hundred times a year or more to people who get the news their husbands, their wives, their babies, mothers, fathers, friends have died. It's the look that says, I'm sorry. This is reality now. You have to deal.

Three weeks. Dief can come home in two days but will need a lot of care - his guts are a mess.  
Don calls me mid-afternoon. "Ray? We've got something. You need to come in."

 

* * *

You are taller and heavier than him, but he is tough and highly trained so you must be wary. After six days, he is diminished enough so that you can draw the blood and give the first shot. He looks in your direction, seeing you for the first time in the feeble light you now permit him briefly - for your own benefit, not his. "Why?" he asks in a satisfyingly weak voice. You do not answer. You want him to be hungry for sound before you speak to him. You notice the drawn face, the tremor in his limbs, the desperation in his eyes - he knows he is close to death. The injection and the blood loss are enough to send him under immediately. He will receive another dose before he wakes.

 

* * *

The look on Don's face is enough to send me into a tailspin, and Welsh brings us both into his office and closes the door. "Ray, sit down," he says without his usual bark. That throws me - have they ...? No, they'd have both come to me if they'd found a body. That doesn't stop me shaking.

Welsh starts to talk in a quiet voice. Don sits next to me. "This morning we found a body in an apartment on the south side. Heroin overdose - looked normal, guy had been dead for two weeks by the looks of it. The landlady called it in on account of the smell. Anyway, we did a routine search and found a gun and a bloody shirt, apparently belonging to the deceased. There was also a journal. And this." Welsh nod to Don who picks up an evidence box containing the knife and other items in plastic bags, and something red. No. Brown on red. Ben's tunic _drenched_ in dried blood. He takes it out to show me. It stinks. Stinks like a meat packing factory.

"It's Fraser's, isn't it?" Welsh asks.

"Looks like," I whisper. It should have his marksman insignia and other things on it. It won't be hard to identify.

"The thing is, Ray," Don say gently, "the journal indicates the dead man, one Mark Hightower, apparently has been following Fraser for months and was totally obsessed with him. He, uh..." He stops and looks at Welsh who finishes what Don was going to say.

"He says he killed Fraser in the woods three weeks ago. The lab has to confirm it but there seems to be soil around the cuffs and on the breast of the tunic."

Don adds, unnecessarily, "He says he made Fraser dig a grave, then he shot him."

I close my eyes, and start to hyperventilate. No. Can't be true.

"Ray?" Welsh asks.

I nod before I jam my hand over my mouth and head for the men's room. I make it into the stall before I throw up my lunch, breakfast, my dinner the night before, half a lung. I'm crouched over the bowl heaving and crying, pain in my heart and my chest, when a cool wetness touches my face and wipes my mouth. I sit back on the dirty tiles. It's Don, wiping my face with a damp paper towel, and rubbing my back. "Take it easy, Ray. Just breathe."

I'm sobbing and hiccuping and I pull my knees up to my chest trying to kill the ache in me. "Ben," I moan, seeing that bloody cloth again in my head.

"Easy, Ray."

Welsh has come in now, and helps me stand up. "Don, take him home, and sit with him, will you? Ray, are you all right?"

I look at him and he knows it's a dumb question. "I'm sorry, Ray," he says quietly. He nods at Don who keeps his arm around my shoulders as I wash my face and try to get a little composure back before I have to walk back through the station. I hold it together until we get to my car but he has to push me into the passenger seat and do up my belt. I can't help him, it's like I'm in a cocoon of cotton wool. That can't be Ben's uniform, I keep thinking, knowing it is, and the two thoughts keep bouncing back and forth until I can't think at all. Don helps me up the stairs. I should apologize to him for being a wuss. One tiny part of me knows I'm in shock, I'll get over it. The rest of my brain is having a Ping-Pong match I can't win. Not Ben. Can't be Ben.

He sits me down and makes tea, talking soothingly to me all the while, putting an afghan over my shoulders when I start to shake. He gives me the tea and holds it steady when my hands look likely to throw the stuff all over me with trembling. "Drink it, Ray. I put sugar in it. It's good for shock."

I sip a little, but it makes me feel sick. He takes it away, and rubs my hands which have gone icy cold. It takes a while before I can stop shaking and then he gets me to try a little more tea. This time, it goes down a little easier. He's right, it helps a bit. At last I can talk without crying. "He's not dead."

"Possibly not, Ray. We haven't found a body. There's always a chance...."

"He's not dead!" I shout. "Fraser can't die like that - it's too fucking dumb!" He watches me as I rant, tears falling again. I sit and rock, trying to escape this horrible pain. He puts a kind hand on my shoulder and waits for me to stop bawling.

He sits with me for hours, talking quietly, feeding me tea and letting me ramble. Around seven I see him looking at the clock on the wall. "Go home, Don. I'm okay."

"No you're not, and I can't let you be on your own tonight. But my cat needs feeding. How about I cab it back to the precinct, get my car, feed Thomas and I can stay the night."

To be honest, I'm relieved he's offering. I don't know what I'll do if I have to face this on my own. He pats my shoulder and takes my spare keys.

While he's gone, I try and assemble my brain. It's crazy - why the fuck would some junkie obsess about my Mountie and kill him? It just doesn't make any sense at all. I decide I'm going to make Welsh let me come back to work. And if he doesn't, I'll quit, call in the Canadians and turn this fucking city upside down until we find something.

 

* * *

The captor is late tonight, and he feels the itch in his brain that calls for the needle. Seven meal times ago, he was told that if he wanted to eat, he had to allow the injection. The injection would occur anyway, but if he didn't cooperate, no food would be given. He tried to hold out, but he was too hungry and weak to last. The injections help anyway and he wants to have at least the illusion of control, even though he knows the drug is really controlling him. He can survive the addiction. He cannot survive prolonged starvation. He is a pragmatic person, he accepts the necessity. For now.

 

* * *

You put the needle and the tourniquet on the tray and wait. He looks at you, as he always does. You cannot tell as yet whether he will take it or not, but you can see the slight quiver in his body as he fights the need. Then he picks the tourniquet up and ties it carefully around his left arm. Just as carefully, deliberately, he injects himself, closing his eyes briefly as the rush hits. Then you take the tourniquet off him, and the needle from his lax fingers, and hand him the meager meal. His eyes are dull and sorrowful as they look at the bead of blood on his arm, the sign of his surrender. You are winning the battle, and he knows it.

 

* * *

Don is back in two hours with Chinese food. I don't feel like eating but he tells me to have something so I pick at the rice and some sweet and sour. My gut hurts from heaving and my head hurts from crying and thinking. We don't talk much. He offers to call someone for me, but I don't want to tell anyone yet. The second I have to admit this to Maggie, or my parents, then it makes it real and I don't want it to be real. He can see I'm getting worked up again and suggests I have a shower and go to bed. When I come out of the bathroom, he's holding up a capsule. "Ray, I was prescribed these a few months ago when my wife left me. They're just temazepam - they'll help you sleep. I think it might be good if you took one."

I look at the little pill and take it without argument. Anything to escape the hell my life has become. He pushes me towards the bedroom, where I sleep, dreamlessly, for twelve hours.

He's up before me, making himself coffee and eggs. "How are you, Ray?"

"Better," I lie, my eyes gummy and sore from crying, my stomach muscles reminding me of throwing up - and why. "Don, thanks for staying. I appreciate it."

"Forget it, Ray. That's what friends are for."

"Are you going in?"

"Yes. I'll take a shower before I leave, if you don't mind."

"I'm coming too."

He gives me a long look. "You sure?"

"Don, someone's killed my best friend. I want to know why and where the body is. Or isn't. You gonna stop me?"

"Nope. Hurry up then and have breakfast."

Welsh doesn't look surprised to see me, and doesn't give me grief about coming back to work, although he refuses to assign me to a case yet. "You can help, _help,_ not run, the investigation. OK? We could do with your assistance anyway. You can start by reading the journal. Eliza's copied it for you."

The stuff they found in Hightower's apartment has been taken to the lab, but I've got a stack of paper to look through in an interview room. I'm left alone. First I read the guy's record. He was a typical user - small crime, small time. Don arrested him a couple of years ago - a normal street bust. He also had medical problems, paranoid schizophrenia being the main one. Then I start to read the journal. Apparently Ben helped him out - gave him money, found him a job about six months back. Typical Fraser stuff, the sort of thing he did - he _does_ \- all the time. But this guy, for some reason, decided that Fraser was a government agent and spying on him, so he decided to keep up surveillance on him. And us. It's incredibly detailed - where we went on our days off, the shifts Ben worked, even Dief's visits to the vet. I turn to the end of the thing. The day Ben disappeared, there was this entry.  
 

> He was so easy to lure with me, so trusting. I took him to the docks. I had a friend in trouble, I said. He talked all the way about Canada, as if that would fool me. I pushed the dog out of the car and shot him, and maced the Mountie. I shot him full of H and he was no trouble.
> 
> I took him to the place I had appointed and tied him up and waited. He took a long time to wake up. When he did I told him I knew his secret, and that the time had come for it to end. He tried to argue with me, but I said I would shoot him in the leg and then the gut so he could die slowly if he didn't shut up. I made him dig a grave. A nice deep grave. Then I shot him. I took his tunic and I filled the grave. I won.

  
I'm crying again by the end of it. No, this can't be right. No way would Ben's last moments be so ... so _pointless._

Don comes in with coffee. "Ray?" he says gently, putting his hand on my shoulder and rubbing it. He waits until I'm blowing my nose and a bit quieter before he tells me what the lab people have found. The blood is Ben's blood group - DNA will take a week. The dirt and pine needles apparently come from the forest preserves on the edge of Chicago - which doesn't exactly narrow it down much. The gun and the bullets that shot Dief match, as much as they can tell. There are traces of Mace on the uniform. It all fits.

"What about the heroin?" I ask.

"What heroin?"

"He said he shot Fraser full of shit to keep him knocked out. The blood should be full of it."

Don looks over the report. "There's nothing there. You want me to ask them to check specifically?"

"Yeah."

"Does he actually say heroin?" I show him the journal page. "Well, that's clear enough. Let me call the lab."

It's a slim hope. Everything else matches the story, and I can't see how the blood got on the uniform unless it was from Ben being shot. But I'm determined not to give up until I get him back - alive or dead.

 

* * *

You watch him watching you as you enter the room. He looks at the tray. This time there is no needle. Just food and water. His eyes hold the question he will not ask but he has to say it before you will answer. It is time for the final stage to begin. You remove the tray when he is finished. He will not eat for another two days. But then, he won't want to.

He has been shamed. He has been weakened. Now he will be broken.

 

* * *

The lab results won't be back until tomorrow. I have to collect Dief, and I decide I better call Maggie. She's entitled to know what's happening ,and I guess I'm starting to accept the possibility of Ben being dead, even if I won't actually believe it.

Dief is still so weak. He needs a lot of care which I wonder if I can give him and work too. But he's happy to see me, and more than ready to be sprung. He comes into the apartment looking for Ben and I feel myself tearing up, watching him. I concentrate on feeding him, and giving him his pills. He can sleep on our bed while he's sick. Poor guy, he's walking real slow, and in a lot of pain. I help him sit on the sofa with me - it's more for me than for him, but he likes me petting him. He keeps making these little whimpers, wondering where Ben is. I keep one hand on him while I dial Maggie's number.

"Maggie? Ray. Hon, there's ... uh, there's news. Is Adam with you?"

"No, he's at work. What's happened, Ray?"

"Uh...." I'm hyperventilating again and nearly have to put the phone down.

"Ray - calm down. Just start at the beginning. "

"Uh ... they found a dead guy..."

"Ben?" Her voice goes high even though she's trying to be cool.

"No... but they, uh ... we've got Ben's uniform. And a gun, and a journal where the guy describes killing him. Maggie ..." I choke up and can't talk.

"Oh, God. Ray. Listen, just breathe slow, nice and easy." She's trying to calm me down, but her voice is breaking too. For her, I make the effort.

"I'm... I'm good, Maggie. Anyway, um... I wanted you to know. We haven't, you know .... no body yet. It's still possible he's alive."

"Yes, it is. Don't give up yet. How's Dief?"

"Right here. Not too good. I'm not sure I can look after him the way he needs."

"Ray, why not send him to me? There's always someone here and I can get him well and send him back to you. He'll be fine here."

I look at Dief, and I swear he's reading my mind because he whines. He looks so unhappy. But if he goes ... but it's temporary. He'll get well, Ben will come home. I know it.

"Okay," I say finally. "I'll clear it with the vet. I think he might need a few days but I'll call you. All right?"

"Sure, Ray. Listen, you look after yourself. And I'm here if you need me."

I have to take some deep breaths before I can answer. "Yeah. Me too. Bye."

Then I cry like a baby. Dief whimpers and puts his head on my lap and licks my hand. Oh God, Dief. Ben. Please, I miss you.

 

* * *

He is twenty four hours into his withdrawal and the symptoms are increasingly severe. He has never been given his clothes back but even the air over his skin hurts. His bones ache until he wants to pound the ground just for relief from the agony. The sweating and the shivering leave him utterly drained, until the next bout of spasms forces movement from an exhausted body. He managed to get to the bucket for the first few bouts of diarrhea but the last attack hit when he was too sick to move, so he lies in his own shit, the smell assailing him, disgust and nausea battling for supremacy with the pain and the unending agitation. He used to know how long each stage of withdrawal took. Now he can barely remember his own name.

 

* * *

You wait until 48 hours have passed and he is at the peak of his misery. The smell of the shit and the vomit revolts you, but you make yourself ignore that and go to the man on the mat and sit next to him, pulling him onto your lap as he shivers and twitches. "I can make it stop," you say.

"Please," he groans. "Just do something."

This is what you have been waiting for. You pull his arm away from his chest when he has clamped it to himself, and apply the tourniquet. He moans, knowing what you are about to do, hating it and needing it at the same time. You inject him, and he goes quiet. The twitching stops, so do the sounds. He sighs a little then opens his eyes and looks at you. You stroke his face. "Better now?"

He nods, forgetting, as you intended, that it is you who has brought him to this. You have brought a bowl in and you wipe the sweat off his filthy body, caked with weeks of accumulated perspiration. Finally you clean the feces up and remove the waste bucket, replacing it with an empty one. You have brought water, and soup, and you hold the cup to his mouth and help him drink slowly. He is already much better. You hold him in your arms until he sleeps.

It is going well.

 

* * *

I sent Dief up to Maggie last week. I could do with his nose while I spend every spare second searching the forest preserves for a grave I hope I cannot find, but he's too weak to help anyway. While I'm at work, I research the life and times of one Mark Hightower.  Don says he doesn't remember him, which doesn't surprise me. The lab analysis confirmed the blood on the shirt and the uniform was Ben's, but there wasn't a speck of heroin in it. It's not much, but I cling to that one fact. Welsh lets me have all the time I need to work on the case even though strictly speaking I shouldn't be touching it - but officially, Ben is just a friend, nothing more. The only other option is to force me on leave, and I think he knows I'll end up eating my gun if I can't do something. It's been six weeks. No body, no clue.

Hightower could have been a poster boy for heroin addiction. But none of it makes sense. Don points out that obsessive stalkers rarely do, but it just smells wrong. Where did he get the gun? I mean, he looked like a typical junkie, yet he had a gun licensed to himself - how the hell did he get it? And the journal is funky - some of it just doesn't read like a twenty three year old's words at all. We haven't found the car he used to allegedly get Ben to the place where he allegedly killed him and that's weird - it's hard to hide a car the size of a Volvo, and why would he hide it anyway? And the other thing I don't get - Hightower weighed about 90 pounds dripping wet. Ben weighs twice that - how the hell did he carry 180 pounds of unconscious Mountie from his car to a grave site isolated enough that no passerby would see what they were doing?

I keep going around and around, driving everyone nuts. Everyone but Welsh and Don. They've both spent hours and hours patiently listening to me. Don comes over most nights now to talk, to go over things. He's spent a lot of weekends with me looking in the forests, never complaining. I keep apologizing, and he keeps telling me that this is what friends do. I don't know how I would cope without him

 

* * *

He has been given a pair of boxers as a reward for cooperation, and his captor allows the light to remain on for a while after the meal, instead of turning it off the second he finishes eating. He is still very weak, and experiences several prolonged bouts of nausea. He also hallucinates from time to time. The only time he feels completely free of the pain and the sickness is when he is allowed to inject himself. He has come to associate meals with injections with visits from his captor. All mean a relief from boredom, pain, worry.

This time, he is surprised when his captor brings in a stool and sits as he eats. The tray is removed, but the captor does not leave. He has been disciplined by deprivation not to speak until he is spoken to, and to never mention certain topics. This time, the captor gives him permission to speak. "You have some questions. You may ask."

He hesitates, sensing there is a limited time and a limited number of questions he will be allowed to ask. "When...?" He stops as a warning finger is held up.

"How is Ray?"

"He thinks you are dead."

"No!" The scream is ripped from him. Again the finger is held up. "No, he can't. It hasn't been long enough," he whispers.

The captor pulls a small recorder from his pocket. "Be silent and listen."

He hears Ray's agonized cries, and his name being called in tones of grief and pain. Tears slip down his face as he hears the voice he misses, in agony at his supposed demise.

"Why?" he asks. The captor shakes his head and takes the tray and the stool and leaves. He understands he has sinned again and he will endure a punishment. He curls up in the corner, the hated collar pulling on his neck, rubbing at the raw skin under it as it always does, and thinks of his lover, crying for him as he has wept, as he is weeping. "Ray," he whispers.

 

* * *

You are breaking down his links to the rest of the world bit by bit. He went without food for two days, without the injections which brought him to the first stages of withdrawal again. When you allow him food and the drug again, you add an emetic and he is sick for a day afterwards. You have been fine tuning his moods, giving him hallucinogens, depressants, euphorics, and he is now dependent upon you entirely for his emotional well-being. But you still must make him trust you, need you entirely. He breaks down again when you tell him his dog is dead, and he lets you comfort him as he cries. This time, you do not punish him. You leave the light on a little longer, provide slightly more food. You talk to him about his childhood and draw forth a happy memory, leaving him smiling when you go. He will come to associate your presence with pleasure, and happiness, and your absence with pain and sickness. It will take some time more. And then the final link will be broken and he will be yours.

 

* * *

Mre than two months - nine weeks and three days to be exact. I've started keeping a diary because I'm afraid I will forget to tell Ben everything when he comes home. I'm afraid I'm forgetting things. Thinking is harder than it used to be. I have to keep reminding people he isn't dead. I get angry with Maggie on the phone. She is telling me when Dief is coming back - in two weeks, she hopes. She refers to Ben in the past tense. I tell her she's made a mistake.

"Ray," she says gently, "I think you should maybe start to let go."

"What do you mean, Maggie?" I don't understand. I have to hold on. That's all I have to do.

"He's probably not coming back, you know."

"Of course he is. It's just a matter of time. You know what Ben's like, always running off."

"Ray? What ...? No, listen to me, Ben's probably dead - you have to face that."

"That's dumb, Maggie. He'll be back any minute." I start to shout at her, and she cries until I hang up.

Don and the lieutenant come to visit me after that - I stopped work a while ago, can't remember when.

Welsh starts talking about how I'm not looking after myself, and not dealing with reality. I start shouting at him then. Things are fuzzy after that - I think Don grabs my arm and I fight him off, and then someone - Welsh? - is pinning me down. I think there were doctors? or paramedics - someone, anyway - and then it's all peaceful. I feel I'm floating. People talk to me, I smile at them. Something ... there's something important to remember. In a while, I'll remember.

 

* * *

You give him a T-shirt, putting it on him in his sleep, and he is very grateful, stroking it and thanking you over and over for your kindness. You visit him twice a day, and always bring food and more injections. He smiles now when you enter the room. There is one more thing left to do.

 

* * *

His friend comes and sits as he does often now. He anticipates the visits. He feels so much better when he comes. But this time, his friend is sad.

"Is something wrong? he asks.

"There was a shoot-out today," his friend says quietly. "Ray was involved."

"Is he hurt?" he whispers, no longer afraid to ask questions and too worried to care.

"He's dead. I'm sorry."

"No," he says. "You're lying."

"No, it's true. He died in my arms. Look." His friend's shirt is bloody and he can see spatters on his skin.

"No! Not true," he screams over and over. His friend tries to comfort him, but he will not be comforted. His friend leaves.

 

* * *

You have made an error. You thought he was ready for the last step. But he has regressed. He will not talk to you, no matter how much food you deprive him of. You now have to inject him in his sleep, as you did when he first arrived. You add euphorics, which make him amenable temporarily, but as soon as they wear off, he is sullen and uncooperative, refusing to look at you or speak. You allow him to go through withdrawal and the emetic, but it makes no difference.

Finally, you halt all food and provide only water infrequently. He spends most of his time asleep. Fool, you tell yourself. Now you have to start all over again.

 

* * *

Maggie comes to visit me in the hospital. She kisses my cheek. "Hello, Ray. How are you?"

"Better. Still a little, you know ..." I circle my finger by my ear and she laughs.

"I don't think that was ever the case. You've been under a lot of stress." She sits down. "They tell me you can go home tomorrow. I'd like to stay for a few days if you don't mind."

"God, no, Maggie, I don't mind. That'd be great." To tell the truth, I'm a little scared of going home, in case I flip out again. I've been here for four weeks, getting counseled and anti-depressed and generally sorted out. Welsh tells me I was completely nuts for a while - I don't remember much. The doctors have been talking to me about Ben and I've been able to accept that he's not coming back. Still hurts, but not to the point of insanity. Maggie helped, calling nearly every day once I was talking again. She said she was bringing Dief back in person, and I was glad.

She takes me home - she's been there for two days already. Don's been keeping my apartment going, feeding the turtle and watering the plants. I'm a little scared but when I see Dief in the door, that gets me over that bump and me and the wolf settle in for a mutual cuddle and lick face session. Maggie lets us get on and boils water for coffee, and puts some soup on for lunch. I go to the sofa, and she comes and sits next to me and takes my hand. "How are you really, Ray?"

"I miss him, Maggie," I say and the stupid tears are back. Can't ever cry this pain away. She holds me for the longest time, patting my back. Who's helped her, I wonder? I let her down. Ben would ... no, I've got to stop that.

I wipe my eyes and try to smile. "Dief looks good," I say and he barks.

"He's really made such good progress, haven't you, boy?" She pats his head. "When do you think you'll go back to work?"

"Dunno. When the doctors say I'm not a danger any more. A week or so, maybe?"

"Then I'll stay until you go back. If that's all right with you."

"Of course it is. Thanks, Maggie." I kiss her cheek. "You got that soup yet?"

"Men," she complains but she fetches the food and we eat. This is the most normal I've felt in three and a half months. I mean, it's not _normal_ normal, but it's the best I can hope for.

Those couple of days we talk. Lots. I tell her everything I can about her brother. It's such a shame - you can't make up for a lifetime of not knowing the other person existed, but she and Ben always thought there'd be time to get to know each other a little better. Now ... well, there's no chance. We cry a lot too.

We go for walks with Dief. I tell her about Don too, and she wants to meet him - I decide to invite him to dinner tomorrow. He's kept away to let us have time on our own, but I feel guilty. He's just been so good to me - and he is my partner. And my best friend now, I guess.

Maggie wants to push the boat out and make a big meal, especially as up in Inuvik, your food choice is kinda limited. It's fun in a loopy way to shop with her, with her making fun of American sugar and fat-loaded fast food and me teasing her about lichen and caribou pizza ... like I used to with Ben. She sees the memories come back and being a smart girl, guesses what's happened. She takes me to lunch and tells me a nutty story about her mom until I'm more cheered up.

Cooking with her is fun - not as much as with ... Stop it, Ray. Anyway, we lay on a feast for Don, kidding about him being a bachelor and Adam, Maggie's boyfriend, having competition when Don tastes her cooking. He's on time and I open the door to him, only to be knocked over by 70 pounds of wolf who flies at him, pinning him to the ground and growling at him, his hackles up more than I've ever seen them, his teeth bared. I shout at Dief and try to pull him off but he actually snaps at me. I back off and call Maggie for help - she brings the choke leash she had to have for him to come through Customs and manages to slip it on him. We both have to pull him to make him move, and he's snarling and barking his head off.

I help Don up while Maggie struggle with the wolf. "Geez, Don, I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell's gotten into him."

Don's rattled for sure - Dief's terrifying when he's like this. Maggie says, "Bedroom," and we drag him in there but he's barking himself hoarse and there's no way he's shutting up.

Don realizes there's no hope for it. "Look, guys, let's do this another time. I probably remind him of someone."

Maggie frowns at that, but I agree with my partner that we can't eat with a hysterical canine in the other room. I walk him out, apologizing but he brushes it off. "Don't worry, Ray. I'm just glad to see you looking well." He claps my shoulder. "Back at work next week some time?"

"You bet."

"Good. Listen, I hate to ask, but I'm away this weekend, visiting my mother, and I wonder if you could feed my cat on Saturday - I'll be back Sunday."

"Hell, you don't have to ask. Sure. I got your key from the last time."

He looks a little embarrassed. "Uh - I don't think Thomas would appreciate Dief coming with you, if you know what I mean."

"I get you, I'll leave him with Maggie."

"Thanks. See you back at work then." And then he drives off.

Dief's shut up and Maggie's let him out. "What the hell was that all about?" I ask her.

"Ray, how well did you say you knew Don?"

"Nearly as well as Ben, I'd say."

"And has Dief reacted like this before to him?"

"He pissed on his leg once, but no, not like this. What the fuck are you getting at? Dief's just not completely ok, that's all. Maybe he smelled Don's cat on him."

She looks me square in the eye. "Dief's fine. And I've learned to trust him as much as Ben did. Now why would Dief dislike your partner so much?"

"How the hell would I know? He hasn't seen him since the day," I stop. "Since the day he was shot," I whisper. No, that can't be it. "Dief must associate Don with being shot, that's all."

"Are you sure? Are you sure it's not more than that? You said Don was the last person to report seeing Ben. Can you trust him?"

"Of course I trust him," I shout again. "Maggie, he's my _partner._ Down here, that means the guy who backs you up, and makes sure you don't get your fool head shot off. He's saved my life half a dozen times, and he's been so good to me since Ben ... since Ben ... you know." I have to sit down. "You don't know what you're saying."

"You're telling me he's been good to you. But what do you know about him? His background? Just tell me. I'm not making a judgment but something triggered Dief and I want to know what."

God, this is fucking surreal. I swallow and start to speak, my gut wound tighter than a spring. "He's ex-Navy. He was a medic, I think. He was married but his wife left him nearly a year ago. We've been partners for nearly two years. Maggie - why the hell would he hurt Ben? He hardly knows him."

"I'm just collecting facts. Dief's reaction is a fact. Don being the last person to see Ben that we know of, is a fact. You know how often the last person to see a murder victim is the murderer."

"He's a cop, Maggie. He's a good guy, honest." I'm pleading with her. Not Don - please don't take him too.

She pats my arm. "There's no harm in making a few discreet enquiries. Talk to the ex - I could do that. Look up his service record, that sort of thing. It's just another angle. It's probably nothing. What say we eat, huh?"

She dishes up, but I've got no appetite. I force food down but it could be putty and cardboard for all I can taste. She leaves me alone and I go to bed early, Dief sleeping on the bed as usual, back to his normal furry, friendly self. I stroke his fur - does he really know who took Ben? He looks at me with his brown eyes and I wish I spoke wolf like... like Ben. Oh Ben. I cry myself to sleep and have nightmares of Don shooting Ben and Dief and me.

 

* * *

You give him an injection with the euphoric again. It's the only way he will talk to you and you are tired of his silence. He has to eat too, and only when he is high will he touch what you bring him. He's lost even more weight than you planned, and you may have to put a drip in. His eyes are dead when they are not glittering from drugs. He was supposed to need you, love you. Now he hates you. When he is high, he makes no sense. When he is sober, he won't speak. You resist the urge to hurt him with physical violence. He will not break under that, you know. You have studied him a long time. His mind is the only weapon that can be used. It is simply a matter of waiting. You have only taken a few months. There is still time. You can do this for years if you need to. The prize of his soul is worth it.

 

* * *

Maggie makes some calls and goes to see the ex. She also looks over my file notes and agrees with me that Hightower being the murderer doesn't fit the facts at all. She also notices that Don busted him two years ago - I tell her I know that and she gives me a look.  I go to the station late one night and look up Don's police and Navy records. Spotless. Perfect in every way, which is weird because even the best cops run up against IA every so often. But he's never ever slipped over the line with a suspect, never annoyed a single superior. His Navy record says he started med school but dropped out to become a cop eight years ago He's been a detective for five of those. Still, there's nothing there that rings bells.

The ex disses Don badly which we sort of expected. Control freak, she said. Always wanting her to be dependent on him. Not that he wouldn't let her work, but it was like he thought she was a child - he would never show how to do something, he would just do it. She left him for a guy who expects her to know as much as she does. Personally, I think she sounds like someone you can't make happy no matter what you do. Maggie's not so sure, but I expected her to take the wife's side.

We talk over dinner. "So now what? I go back to work next week, and I'm not investigating someone who I depend on for back up, I can tell you that."

She sighs. "It's a long shot, but we could take Dief to his house."

"What and have the furface tear his throat out? No thanks."

"Uh, no, I meant while Don is away this weekend."

"Are you fucking nuts?" I shout. "You want to search my partner's house - my _completely innocent_ partner's house - illegally?"

She nods. "Yes. Ray - he'll never know."

"Oh and that makes it okay, does it? What the fuck do they teach you people up North?"

I'm so pissed I have to leave the table before I slap her or do something equally idiotic. I sit on the sofa and sulk. She finishes her meal and takes her plate to the sink before coming and sitting next to me. She takes my hand. "Ray - I know it's irregular..." I snort at that. "Well, I know. But look, it's the only breakthrough we've had."

"Maggie, Dief throwing a hissy fit is not a breakthrough!"

"Are you going to help me or not?" she asks quietly.

I look into her eyes - blue, so like Ben's. What she's asking could get me and her thrown in jail - me thrown off the force at least, and I would lose Don's friendship forever. But ... she knows all that and she still wants to do it. That's gotta mean something. I nod, unhappy but knowing I have to back her up. Like I have to back Don up. Or Ben.

Another troubled night's sleep. We're both going to go when I feed Don's cat. I am betraying his trust in the most basic way and I feel like a complete and utter turd.

By unspoken agreement, we spend Saturday in our own separate ways. I don't want to talk about it, and she knows I'm pissed still. Dief is his usual self. I walk a lot of the day with him. Maybe I should just take him for a run in the forest ... but I don't want him to find anything there any more than I want him to turn up something at Don's house. I'm no happier by the time I get home, and it's a damn silent meal.

I drive us there and park half a block from Don's house. I unlock the front door - Thomas, Don's fat and lazy ginger cat is waiting, and hisses when he sees the wolf. I pick the cat up and keep him under control while Maggie takes Dief's face in her hands. "Ben," she says and he barks and starts scabbling at the basement door. I put the cat down. The door is unlocked and we go downstairs. It's a typical suburban basement - washing machine, junk, old bikes. No Ben. "This is a waste of time, " I whisper to Maggie and go to head up the stairs.

"Ray," she says quietly. I turn. Dief is scratching at the back wall. Maggie moves some of the cardboard boxes, which are empty, surprisingly. There's a door, fitted flush with the wall and hard to see. Locked. Maggie lifts an eyebrow and sets to picking it, while I wonder where the hell she learned that trick. She's got it in a minute and the door swings open into a dark room. There's a switch just outside the door and I flick it on. To see Ben curled up, naked, lying in shit, and shaking like a leaf. Alive.

I think I went into shock for a couple of seconds and Dief was hysterical for a while. It was Maggie who actually approached him and found he was unconscious and chained by this fucking collar around his neck. "I'll call 911," she says and goes to do it.

I should have told her to get Welsh too, but right now, all I can think about is Ben. I sit next to him, almost afraid to touch him. He looks like a ghost and the smell - my god, the shit and him, it's sickening. I put my hand on his face - he's burning up. "Ben?" I call but he's totally out of it.

Damn, the light in here is bad - I can hardly see him. Maggie comes back. "How is he?"

"Can't tell. Let's turn him."

We move him on his back, and that's when we see the track marks. "Oh my god," she whispers.

That makes me start thinking again. "Maggie - go ring Welsh at home and tell him what's happened and that Don has to be picked up." I tell her the address in Detroit. "Oh, and tell someone to bring a hacksaw or something." Wish I'd brought my cell now. I give her the number and she goes again. She'll wait for the EMTs and the uniforms.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I can see just what bad a shape Ben is in. He's only about half his normal weight, his hair is long and greasy, and he has a straggly beard. There are sores around his mouth, and around this damn collar. He's shaking so hard I can hardly hang on to him. Got to get that thing off him - it's locked with a padlock.. Dief watches him while I root around and see if I can find ... ah, got it. Found a hacksaw. At least I can start taking it off him.

I'm almost through the thing when the EMTs arrive. I step aside while they take his vitals, but when they see I've nearly got the collar off they tell me to keep going. And then it's off, and he's on a gurney and being taken out. To safety. To the real world. And eventually back home to me.

 

* * *

You have lost and this time for good. So close to having him. You wanted his soul and ended up losing your own. You endure the indignities of arrest, of incarceration. None of it matters. You wait for your opportunity - a sharpened spoon, or a torn sheet perhaps. It won't be immediate but you can be patient. There is still time enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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